With a tractable reading list in front of me my impatience with reading turned quickly into avidity. Saul Bellow’s Augie March, who also begins his attachment to books by stealing them, says about coming late to reading, “I had found something out about an unknown privation, and I realized how a general love or craving, before it is explicit or before it sees its object, manifests itself as boredom or some other kind of suffering.”
Damn, it feels good to be a reader.
I do not want to read, to write more. I have dedicated my life to the novel: I studied, I taught, I wrote and I read. With the exclusion of almost everything else. Enough is enough!
Isn’t reading more supposed to be one of the perks of retirement?
In most of the rest of the world we have an idea of how a story should work, you know, in a three-act structure. But these stories were nothing like that. They would start and be told without any sort of conclusion, or a conclusion you wouldn’t understand.
A description that is fitting to both Aboriginal storytelling and Haruki Murakami novels.
Yet resources will also be allocated to some new writers and even some smaller books—because they have to be. Without that, the whole operation withers and dies. However much the large houses might seem to ignore that basic rule, there are still editors within each one of them who understand it.
Never underestimate the power of the debut novel.